


The Uninvited

by Elise_Aurora



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, M/M, Multi, Native American/First Nations Legends & Lore, Self-Harm, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:01:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27016189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elise_Aurora/pseuds/Elise_Aurora
Summary: Trauma: (noun) emotional shock following a stressful event or a physical injury, which may be associated with physical shock and sometimes leads to long-term neurosis.“He'll blame the violence on the aliens. He only gets his parade if he makes people afraid. And then he destroys the thing they fear. He makes people think you're terrorists before he kills you.” Roswell New Mexico, Crash Into Me
Relationships: Alex Manes/Original Male Character(s), Isabel Evans/Rosa Ortecho, Maria DeLuca/Michael Guerin, Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Michael Guerin/Alex Manes, Michael Guerin/Other(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Author's Note and Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma: (noun) emotional shock following a stressful event or a physical injury, which may be associated with physical shock and sometimes leads to long-term neurosis. 
> 
> “He'll blame the violence on the aliens. He only gets his parade if he makes people afraid. And then he destroys the thing they fear. He makes people think you're terrorists before he kills you.” Roswell New Mexico, Crash Into Me

**Author’s Note and Foreword:**

Hi everyone.

A few things to know before you read this fic:

  1. First, a few standard warnings: This is going to be an explicit piece of fiction. If you feel uncomfortable reading descriptions of sexual assault, physical abuse, domestic assault or graphic violence, please do not read this piece of fiction.
  2. While we all adore the show, (which is why I assume you’re reading this,) I think we can all agree that Carina (hereafter known as CAM) played fast and loose with timelines, ages, ranks, branches of military service, etc. (Alex’s unusual uniform options in season 1 speak for themselves.) So, with all deference to CAM, I’ve gone ahead and filled in some blanks with regard to those details. If they don’t match up exactly in canon, or don’t match up in later seasons…sorry in advance.
  3. I love the show’s emphasis on the struggles of BIPOC. What I hoped for (and didn’t really get,) was a more concrete understanding of how Alex’s (assumed) half-Native heritage would have had an impact on his emotional, social, and psychological development. I’m hoping to take some space to explore that here. 
    1. The closest reservation to Roswell, NM is the Mescalero Apache Reservation. It’s about 90 minutes due west of the city. <https://goo.gl/maps/35iH4b9pfwhMwW5TA>
    2. For the purposes of this fic and convenience, I’m going to assume that Alex has matrilineal Navajo heritage. While I’m not sure that the show has explicitly stated his matrilineal heritage (the end of season two has some incorporated Navajo elements,) I’m taking creative license here.
    3. If you are of Native descent (or just incredibly knowledgeable, I don’t judge,) and wish to correct/update anything that I’ve written here, please feel free to reach out. I love constructive criticism, and want to be sure that I’m taking the time to portray Navajo culture as carefully and accurately as possible.
  4. Sexual and Domestic Assault is a horrifically wide-spread issue in many reservations across the United States and Canada. <https://publicintegrity.org/politics/murdered-and-missing-native-american-women-challenge-police-and-courts/>
    1. This story will be exploring these themes; I will be updating story warnings as necessary throughout its development.
  5. I’m going to try to be as physically accurate with spaces/landmarks as I can. If I reference a historical/real event, I’ll try to link back to some info about it. (Casts side-eye at Maria’s comment about the Tuskegee experiments in ep2.7 - <https://www.cdc.gov/tuskegee/timeline.htm>)
  6. Jesse Manes is his own Trigger Warning. While I’m hoping to take some time in this piece of fic to explore how/why Jesse became evil!Jesse, I’m not excusing any of the abuse he perpetuates on his sons and his wife.



To paraphrase William Goldman, I tend to leave impassioned commentary in the margins/author’s notes. Feel free to ignore if that’s not your thing. If you don’t know who William Goldman is, he’s the guy who’s responsible for The Princess Bride, the best movie/book in existence.

(Seriously, I’ll fight you on this one.) <https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093779/>

If you haven’t read the book the movie is based on, I can’t recommend it enough. Seriously.

It’s Laugh Out Loud, Don’t Drink Beverages While You Read This funny. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Princess_Bride_(novel)>)

Lastly, I do not own, nor am I looking to own (or make any money from) this piece of fiction. The original characters of Roswell, NM are the intellectual property of CAM, CW, Warner Brothers, and a whole slew of people who make a great deal more money than I could hope to see in a lifetime.

Definitely (hopefully,) the last author’s note in this chapter: I personally believe, given who Michael Vlamis is, that he probably reads fanfiction.

If he does, and he’s reading this: Dude, great work. Keep it up. If you'd like to add feedback to any porny bits later, I'm all ears. 


	2. Chapter 1 - Like Anyone Would Be - Gregory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trauma: (noun) emotional shock following a stressful event or a physical injury, which may be associated with physical shock and sometimes leads to long-term neurosis. 
> 
> “He'll blame the violence on the aliens. He only gets his parade if he makes people afraid. And then he destroys the thing they fear. He makes people think you're terrorists before he kills you.” Roswell New Mexico, Crash Into Me

**Chapter 1 – Like Anyone Would Be**

**Gregory Manes: May, 2008**

The keening was nearly inaudible as the final stitch slipped into place, closing thin skin over sluggish bleeding. The knuckles of the maimed hand were almost white, although whether that was due to the blood loss or the vise-like grip Greg had on the boy's hand was anyone's guess. Their small kitchen table reeked of the ammoniac smell of urine and sour bile, mixed with the cloying copper smell of old blood. The reservation doctor sucked in a breath of air through his mouth, unclenching his jaw after two hours of tension. The bloom of blood into the surrounding tissue as the patient’s hand lifted caused the remaining clawed thumb and forefinger to clench reflexively, then relax.

"I think he's all done in, sir." Greg gestured towards the patient's face, relaxed in unconscious oblivion.

"Apparently. He'll need a hose down and then you can dump him in the trunk. Wait on my command.” The ad-hoc nurse grunted an assent, moving to grip the semi-conscious patient by the shoulders and haul him towards the door.

"Gregory." The Master Sergeant's voice was steel, pitched so softly that the doctor strained to hear his words. "I shouldn't want to hear that any…additional assistance has come to Mr. Guerin, shall I?"

"No, sir." The young man’s mouth twisted uncomfortably over a fading bruise, shifting into mottled yellows and greens. The reservation doctor glanced away from the young man’s back, bowed in shame.

"John. A moment of your time." Master Sergeant Jesse Manes turned his attention back towards the room.

"Of course. I'll be just a moment." John Kindelay, “Doc John” to children and adults of all ages, turned to face the chipped kitchen sink, dotted with clots of dried blood and stained gauze sponges, bits of cut thread and medical tape. The yellow curtains over the sink were faded with time, parted just enough for him to see a sliver of light coming from the storage shed and adjoining bit of scraped garden. He was sweating despite the chill of the room. He could smell himself, sour and peaty under his arms, rank with the older layered smell of cheap liquor, cheaper Dial soap, and newer dried blood. His dim reflection in the sink window showed an ill-fed man of indeterminate age, sunken eyes and sallow skin covered in a mousy grey beard. The tap water was tepid on his hands and face, but the sound of it sluicing into the drain gave him courage.

“Do you need me to see to the boy, Master Sergeant?” He risked a glance towards the shadowed pantry entry, where a slim figure lay propped against the wall, his gaze blank.

“There is no boy, here. You’re addressing a Manes man.” The young man on the floor didn’t react.

Jesse pulled a chair away from the table, his lightly tanned skin obscenely clean against the blood specked country pine. He sat down and lit a cigarette, leisurely closing an antique brass lighter. He settled more comfortably, taking a long drag before leveling his gaze towards the sink. He tilted his head towards the sound of the garden hose sputtering to life behind the house.

“How long we been ‘friends.’ John?”

Kindelay wished desperately for a drink. He wished himself back home in his trailer, listening to the tinny sounds of his Christian radio station, nursing a cheap vodka into insensibility. He picked at the blood under his fingernails. “I dunno, Jesse. Long time, I guess.”

Manes exhaled slowly. “I’d say. It’s been a long time since you’ve called me to help you with your messes. I’d say we were just about due for a visit, right?”

John’s hands tightened reflexively. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Jesse Manes smiled beatifically, a picture of serene innocence that contrasted sharply with the sprawled bloody boy behind him. “I think you do know, John. And I think I’ve been a real good sport, helping you out like I do. A real good sport. So good, in fact, that I’m going to help you out again.” He tipped the cigarette ash into a pile of bloody gauze before continuing, “Tonight, my son was almost assaulted by a monster. Lucky for me, I came home in time to rescue him from further…indignity. I was forced to defend myself against his attacker, who struck at me before I was able to subdue him.”

John’s fingers began to shake. He clutched the cool sink behind him for support. “What’s that got to do with me? I patched the kid up for you.”

“My son and I have an understanding, John. Manes men are men of their word, even if this last one’s as soft as can be. Too much of his mother in him, really. Alex and I here had a little chat about his future this evening, didn’t we Alex?”

The boy on the floor was barely breathing; eyes shut and face slack. He didn’t answer.

Jesse ignored the lack of response, tapping his knuckles on the table to catch the other’s man’s attention.

“I think we’ve been coddling the baby of the family too long, John. He’s got to learn sooner rather than later that this unnatural music, piercings, and trashy clothing are going to send the wrong message. It leads to unnatural behavior unbecoming of a MAN, let alone a Manes man. His mother was weak, and we can stamp that weakness out while there’s still time. We’re legacy men. I will not have my son destroy this family’s history.”

The cigarette was a glowing cherry red in the gloom, almost burned through to the filter.

“Please, Jesse. That other boy - he’s just a kid. He needs to be in a hospital. The damage…I couldn’t do more than stop the worst of the bleeding. He’s going to be maimed for life if he doesn’t get better help, and soon. He needs X-rays, and a CT. We have no way of knowing how much damage his head wounds are going to have.” Doc John was visibly shaking, his voice trembling with the strain of withdrawal and stress.

“Oh, he’s no boy, John. Not even close. The Project has identified him as a threat, and I think it’s about time we did something about it. An ounce of prevention, and all that. You know, seems to me that you’d be thrilled to learn that we’ve finally caught the creep that’s been goin’ after all those girls and boys down your way. I figured that you’d be thrilled to bring a murderer to the Rez cops after you’ve been looking for him all this time, hmm?” 

John was horrified, shock pulling him fully upright, finally looking Jesse in the eye.

“Jesse! Those…things haven’t happened for well on four years now, too long for this boy to have…been involved.” His mouth was dry, and he fought the compulsive urge to swallow.

The other man’s cigarette stubbed furiously into the table, scorching a round hole into the yellow gingham cloth.

“That’s right, isn’t it, John? Four long years. Just enough time for ‘someone’ to…reinvent themselves, I guess. Just enough time for the people close to them to start their long journey into walking alcoholic decay, right? Now, I know you remember what good friends we are, John. What a good friend, great friend even, that I’ve been to you and _your family_ for such a long time. We know how to keep secrets, even from the Project. Family stays together, don’t we?”

Jesse tipped his head back to look at the smaller man, trembling in the sink’s overhead light. He smiled again.

“So you’re going to get to be the hero of the story, Doc. Isn’t that amazing?” He stood, stalking slowly towards the man at the sink. “They might even get you a medal or something, down there on the Rez, for bringing in that ‘monster’ they’ve been looking for.” He stood at parade rest, inches from the doctor’s heaving chest.

“Here’s what you’re gonna do for us, John. You’re going to take that thug in your trunk down there to Mescalero, and you’re going to turn him in for assault. You’re going to say that you and I were having a nice, friendly drink when my son screamed for help from our shed out back. We ran in to find him being assaulted by that piece of filth, who confessed to multiple crimes before being…subdued. You got that, John?” He tipped a finger under the doctor’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze.

John wrenched his head aside, and vomited all over the clean tile floor, choking on yellow bile. He was horrified to see that it had reached as far as the jean-covered legs of the boy on the floor. He still hadn’t moved.

“Don’t worry about it, doc. Some people come over queasy at the sight of blood, just like my youngest. That’s his mother in him. We’ll knock that out of him before he enlists, won’t we?”

Master Sergeant Manes scooped a set of worn keys from the table, dangling them in front of the doctor’s face. “Well, I won’t be keeping you, doc. I know you’ve got to get back. Can’t keep ‘em waiting on the good news.”

* * *

Greg Manes was a man, the oldest of this generation’s Manes men.

He’d survived ROTC, Boot Camp, and Navy CTI Training. He’d led teams through covert operations all over the world, using his linguistic and cultural skills to keep people safe. CTI Manes was a respected man, an engaging peer, and a supportive leader. He was going places, his fleet commanders said. 

Gregory Manes was none of those things. He’d snapped to salute his father in his own home, picking up drills with Alex and Flint as though he’d never walked out to the door to get on the bus to Boot Camp. He’d made his bed with pin straight corners and scrubbed the antique kitchen sink with the same frenzied fear he’d had at 15.

He’d only been home on leave for two days before he realized that the sweet boy he’d left behind playing forts and cops and robbers with Kyle Valenti had become a shy, fearful teenager, prone to listening to angsty rock and wearing black clothing. There were yellowed spots on the wallpaper of their shared bedroom, empty places where pictures of Alex and Kyle had once occupied a place of honor. The spots stood bare, surrounded by dozens of other photos and posters, a small piece of occupied chaos in the otherwise pristine small bedroom. There were pictures of Alex smiling shyly with three girls, arms around Mimi Deluca’s daughter and the oldest Ortecho girl, while her younger sister made faces in the background. There were pictures of the school band, some amateur shots of the desert, and a few close up shots of the Ortechos goofing off on the roof of the Crashdown. One photo, slightly creased, was tucked in a place of honor by the head of the bed, in eyeline with someone laying down.

Their mother had been a beautiful woman, caught smiling in this moment, with her hair loose and blowing in the wind. It was a candid shot, and the only one he’d ever seen of his mother smiling. Tucked slightly above the photo of their mom was a photo of Alex and another boy, heads bent close over two guitars.

Tonight, he’d held that boy down as he screamed, watching with clinical detachment as Doc John stitched closed the worst wounds on his battered hands and bleeding skull. He’d carefully avoided bearing down on the mottled bruises on the boy’s naked back, shaped roughly like size 10 boots. He’d memorized the tread of those boots early on in his own life; they’d been red in the dust by the front porch, yellow in the shavings of the old chicken house, and black and green on Flint’s legs, the summer his brother got caught taking the bus out of town to meet friends for a graduation party.

The water from the hose was still warm after baking in the sun. Slowing the flow to a trickle, he gently washed the worst of the blood and tears from the unconscious boy’s face, sparing only the briefest glance for the mangled hand in the wet desert clay. He worked as quickly and efficiently as possible, checking his perimeter with wide eyes before stripping himself of the t-shirt under his overshirt, pulling it over the wet curly head and down the battered arms. The pants were a loss, covered in blood and urine, an unfortunate side effect of a perfectly placed kick to the kidneys. He soaked the material through in warm water, washing away as much of the smell as he could, before quickly lifting the boy in his arms, and opening the car.

The stale air was hot and dusty, but there was a spare saddle blanket tucked in the back. He wrapped the boy in the warm loomed cotton, and carefully placed him on the floor of the back seat. 

He popped the trunk quickly from the driver’s side, and stalked to the back of the car, slamming the trunk down loudly over empty space before heading back to the house.

* * *

**Roswell Emergency Call Center, May 9, 2008:**

**20:02 pm**

**____Connection Opens____**

_Dispatch Operator 2998:_ “Roswell Emergency Services, what’s your emergency?”

<static, heavy breathing>

 _Dispatch Operator 2998:_ “Hello? Sir? Ma’am? Roswell Emergency Services, what’s your emergency?”

<muffled sounds, an unintelligible voice>

 _Dispatch Operator 2998:_ “Hello, I’m sorry, can you please repeat that?”

<muffled sound>

<male voice> “Please, he’s just a kid, and he’s hurt. I didn’t know, I swear. I got there too late, and by the time I did…please. You just have to help him.”

 _Dispatch Operator 2998:_ “We can help you, sir. Can you tell us where you are?”

<male voice> “He’s in an old 4Runner. Black, with a missing hubcap on the left. They’re heading down towards Mescalero on 380, they’ll have to pass that Mossman Road crossway within ten minutes.”

 _Dispatch Operator 2998:_ “We’ll get someone down there right away. Sir, can you stay on the line? What’s your name?”

<muffled sound> <static, heavy breathing>

**20:04 pm**

**____Connection Ends____**

* * *

**Roswell Emergency Call Center, May 9, 2008:**

**20:31 pm**

**____Connection Opens____**

_Dispatch Operator 1932:_ “Roswell Emergency Services, what’s your emergency?”

<male voice> Hey, Carla, this is Jim Valenti. Can you call into Carlos down at the station and have him send a bus up towards the Foster’s ranch on 380, by mile marker 22.5? We’ve got a nasty accident down here on the road, and I’m going to need some backup until we can get this sorted out.

 _Dispatch Operator 1932:_ “Sure thing, Jim. I’ll send a bus out ASAP.”

<male voice, identified: Badge RCPD14829> Thanks, kid. Can you call the Mescalero Rez police too? Looks like Doc John might not have made it. They’ll want to know.

 _Dispatch Operator 1932:_ “I’m so sorry to hear that, Jim. Mom’ll be devastated. He delivered Mandy ten years back. Don’t worry. I’ll call Bill down at the reservation station and have him come right up.”

<muffled sounds, sirens>

<male voice, identified: Badge RCPD14829> “What’re you kids doing here? The road’s closed, folks. You’re going to need to head back up the road and take Buchanan if you’re looking to head around.”

<sirens, indistinct voices>

<male voice, identified: Badge RCPD14829> “You’re going to have to step back from the scene of the accident, kids. I know you want to help, but you’re not going to make things easier for the professionals.”

<male voice, speaker #2> “Sorry, Sheriff, we’ll get outta your hair, just wanted to help if we could. Is it ok if I pull my sister off the road a bit? She’s gone a bit queasy, seeing the accident. She needs some air.”>

<male voice, identified: Badge RCPD14829> “No problem, Evans. Just make sure that you pull her and the car back a bit from the scene, ok?”

 _Dispatch Operator 1932:_ “Jim, we’ve alerted the hospital to stand by and there’s a bus en route – ETA 17 minutes. I have audio confirmation with the reservation, they’re sending Bill Midthunder up ASAP. I hope you have a better night. I’m sorry for Doc Kindelay.”

<male voice, identified: Badge RCPD14829> “I’ve had better nights, Carla. I’m gonna have to find a way to break the news to Kyle. You kids over at dispatch take care, ok?

**20:55 pm**

**____Connection Ends____**

*****Posting every Wednesday*****


	3. Chapter 2 - I Am Flattered... - Michael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fascination: (noun) the power to fascinate someone; the quality of being fascinating. (synonyms) Allure, charm, attraction, intrigue
> 
> Alex Manes: “I spent the night with some old friends. They made me think about – I don’t know – who I was when this started; before I went to war.”  
> Michael Guerin: “Where I stand, nothing’s changed.”  
> Alex Manes: “Yeah, it’s clear in the way you look at me, and that’s a problem for me, Guerin. Because every time you look at me, I’m 17 again; I forget that the last 10 years even happened. And then you look away and I remember all over again and it almost kills me. Every time.”  
> Michael Guerin: “I never look away, not really.”

**Michael: April, 2008 - 10 weeks until graduation**

There’s a moth near his corner of the art classroom, flying in smaller and smaller circles towards the cracked window next to his desk. The air is hot and oppressive, even with closed windows, pulled shades, and the air-conditioner spitting fitfully in the opposite corner. The classroom reeks of stale chalks, earthen clay, and comfortingly, of acetone paint removers. This was Michael’s first detention in this room; the others were…conveniently unserviceable for the moment.

Monday’s Econ class had had issues with a faulty sprinkler system, Tuesday’s Spanish lab had evacuated after a small fire nearly roasted the 10th grade papier-mâché piñata projects. Wednesday, one of Valenti’s jock football idiots pulled the gym fire alarm; a stroke of incredible luck. Today, he’s in the art classroom, and that’s just fine with him, really. The seatback is uneven and the desk isn’t level; he keeps bumping his sore knee into the metal arm holding the desk to the seat.

None of it matters. _He’s_ back today.

Alex Manes, senior year’s alt-rock emo mascot. He’s wearing a Motion City Soundtrack shirt, dark-wash jeans and ripped Converse. Oddly, there’s also a misshapen beanie tugged down tightly over his ears in the sweltering heat. It’s just the two of them in the room, trapped under the withering glare of Miss Hume, the Economics teacher. Alex slumps into the desk, picking aimlessly at chipped black fingernail polish. There’s a small black guitar case propped by his feet, and a book open to handwritten music on the desk in front of him.

There’s a small patch of hair under the cut of his jawline, obviously missed when shaving. Michael’s been struggling with his own facial hair for years; it’s still patchy in places and looks to be more full than Alex’s patchy growth. After so much time learning to sleep and clean up in strange places, he’s mastered the art of shaving without a mirror. He idly wonders if Alex has soft facial hair, or if it’s as thick and bristly as his own. He loves looking at the line of the other boy’s jaw, at the soft curl of hair pushed down over his left ear by the ugly hat. Alex’s skin is smooth and unmarked by the acne most of their class still struggles with. Does he have a great skin care routine, like the one Isabel’s always trying to get Max to adopt? Or is it a product of good genes? He’s never had breakouts, himself. He wonders what it must feel like, this simple interruption to the slide of smooth skin.

The intensity of his _want_ is comfortable, as familiar to his state of being as the worn in feeling of his cotton shirt on his back. He’s memorized the soft dip of vestigial baby fat under Alex’s chin, becoming infinitesimally smaller each year as the strong shape of his jaw cuts closer to the surface. He knows the small v-shaped scar under Alex’s right wrist; a souvenir from the day Alex and Rosa Ortecho were practicing kickback flips on her skateboard, or the shape of the smile lines in the corners of his eyes.

Alex shifts over the desk, erasing and correcting the music in front of him. His hoodie pulls tight across his arms with the shift, stretch up over his spine to reveal a strip of lighter tanned lower back and a sliver of blue cotton boxers under his jeans. Michael shifts as his own jeans become uncomfortable, a silent need making itself known just beyond the focus of his physical control.

He startles out of his fascinated reverie when Miss Hume speaks to them both.

“Welcome to detention, gentlemen. There will be no talking, fighting, or listening to music. You may sit quietly and do your homework or study until the bell.”

They both ignore her.

Within a few moments, she’ll turn and surreptitiously grab a glossy covered romance paperback from the bag at her feet. A few more minutes time will find her utterly absorbed, sneaking chocolate from a crinkling bag in her lap as she turns the pages. He’d once watched with horrified amusement as she reached what must have been a juicy scene in last week’s novel; she’d tipped forward with wide eyes, manically munching chocolate pieces until her nose was almost 3 inches from the pages, as her other hand reflexively smoothed her long plain skirt down her legs, over and over again…

He’d learned from previous experience that once she was good and settled, it generally took the influence of a higher power to derail her focus from heaving bosoms and handsome pirates.

Well, a higher power…or a slight miscalculation with his TK in the Spanish lab. He’s still not sure if he feels bad about that. Time will tell. Risk and reward, and all that.

He’s got Max’s physics textbook propped open to tonight’s homework, and he wastes as much time as possible writing sarcastic answers for most of the questions, showing off a bit with his mental math as he goes. He wastes a few more minutes doodling an Eric Cartman reaction to one of the answers, taking special care to pencil in crossed dark eyebrows and a flaming caption bubble: “Respect mah authoritah!”.

Finally, he reaches the last problem in the set:

_Calorimetry is a technique in which a material is determined using only its heat properties. You are given a 125 g block of a mystery substance, and your task is to figure out what it is! You heat your 0.125 kg block of mystery substance to 90 °C in an oven. You then lower it into a cup with 0.326 kg of water._

_The water is initially 20 °C. After leaving the block in the water a long time, you notice that the temperature of the water has increased to 22.4 °C._

_Find the specific heat capacity of the mystery block. What substance is it?_

Seriously? Max can play doctor in biology with Liz Ortecho for hours, but he couldn’t answer a simple math problem? Idiot. He scratched at the sweat gathering on his nape and settled in to write.

_Dear Captain Angst,_

_T_ _he answer is simple. Rewrite this masterpiece so that Andrews doesn’t look at you funny, k?_

_You know from class that the equation to calculate specific heat is: Q=s×m×_ _Δ_ _T, right?_

_Q represents the amount of heat, s the specific heat - - -Joules/gram*°Celsius, m the mass of the substance in grams, and_ _Δ_ _T the observed change in temperature._

_When you drop the hot substance into the cooler water, heat will flow from hot to cold. After a long time, they will both have the same final temperature, 22.4 °C. We know that the energy absorbed by the water must have come from the substance. My mental math tells me that the water absorbs 3275 J of energy, which must have come from the substance._

_We set up the math like this:_

_A quick review of the table of elements and their specific heats on pg 235 shows you that this Scooby Doo reveal is probably copper. If you’re looking to give yourself a boost, memorize this exact question for Friday’s pop quiz. Andrews always takes the hardest question of the week’s homework and tosses it on a Friday quiz._

_Easy 10 points, bro._

_For my incredible mental skills, I claim at least 1 Galaxy Sub and a side of Chili Orbit Rings. Don’t punk out on my cherry coke, asshole._

_M._

“I dunno, Guerin. I think you’re selling yourself short. I’m pretty positive that Evans should pony up at least a Martian Milkshake to go with the rest of it. Just sayin.’” Michael looked up in surprise, almost knocking heads with his detention companion. There was a brief waft of clean sweat, damp cotton, and some vague chemical hair product, layering the smell of sun-warmed skin as Alex Manes shifted away from his desk, ducking his face before Michael could catch his eye. Stooping to grab at the scratched guitar case, he headed quickly for the door.

<Come ON, Michael. Say something. Anything. This is the most _he’s_ said to you in…EVER.>

Before he could gather his courage, Alex paused by the door, and shot a quick glance over his shoulder.

“FYI, you might want to let Evans know to circle the final answer, and to actually show all of his math. Andrews won’t buy more than one math genius per graduating class.”

“Hey, thanks, I-” The doorway was empty.

<Smooth as fuck, you idiot.> His head hit the desk with a hollow thunk.

Groaning, he sat up long enough to grab the pen, scrawl a quick P.S. to Max, and circle the problem’s answer emphatically. The bell rang, startling Miss Hume’s rapt attention.

“You may leave, Mr. Guerin. I hope today’s detention gave you ample time to reflect on the serious nature of fighting at school.”

He tipped a sarcastic salute in her direction before loping quickly to the door. He still had 45 minutes until the late bus, which meant that Alex would probably hole up somewhere to play music before heading back home.

The hallway was deserted, with no sign of Alex; anyone who was anyone would be over in B-wing, setting up for Prom, or at football practice with the rest of Valenti’s meathead squad.

Turning on his heel, he pivoted towards the far hall. The older section of the original building had started to fall into disrepair by the late 70’s. A wealthy alum had given the school a facelift in the mid-90’s, adding the brand-new Katims Resource Hall, band room, teacher’s lounge and classrooms. By the year Michael had started, the old wing had become a dark, closed-off relic, with a heavy lock installed on the hallway access doors. Bright orange posters warned of the next week’s impending fumigation and asbestos removal work. Time was counting down; another safe space gone.

His current foster parents were religious nuts, prone to “communing with Jesus” in an actual _yurt_ outside the tiny house on the outskirts of the city limits. His “room” had once been an old sun-porch, dirty glass panes facing the unforgiving Western sun. In the summer, he’d die in the heat. This past winter, he’d fought frostbite by stuffing his military surplus sleeping bag with his spare clothes, and sleeping in as many layers as possible on the bed’s thin mattress. He’d learned early on to avoid showering in the house; the old man had a creepy habit of walking in to use the toilet when Michael showered in the small glass stall.

He’d become used to showering at the school in junior year, when spare night shifts at Foster’s ranch bled into his school days. Discovering the old wing had been a stroke of luck, after rumors of illicit senior activities forced the administrators to update the crumbling padlock with a real deadbolt.

The shiny brass mechanism was child’s play, opening easily under his hands as he slipped into the dark hall. He closed the door softly and turned the bolt home. The cinderblock hall was painted an institutional green, pockmarked with water damage and minor decay. The old teacher’s lounge on the end had been an inspired find, containing a few small couches in decent repair, a dining table with chairs, and a large brown refrigerator. One wall had a line of matching brown painted cupboards, topped by a chipped vinyl counter next to a peeling painted radiator. A small door in the corner led to a small single bathroom with a rust covered toilet and single shower stall.

When he’d first found the space, he’d squatted sparingly, keeping an eye out for the school’s one security guard, or the janitor. He learned fairly quickly that Ricky, the high school drop-out turned security guard, liked to take one pass of the halls at exactly 6:30; he’d end at the gym, ogling the cheerleaders doing reps before sitting outside in his truck and smoking up until his shift ended at 8. Mrs. Rodriguez, the school’s elderly janitor, came into to mop the floors, sweep and empty baskets. Her son Eduardo came to help her on alternate weekends, doing the heavy lifting and pushing the floor buffer that had become too strong for his mother to operate on her own.

He’d hidden a cheap plastic bin stuffed with some spare clothing, soap, and a Goodwill sleeping bag in the cupboard closest to the gently humming refrigerator. It had given him a two week distraction last fall fixing it up; poring over a coffee-stained Frigidaire manual from the late 60’s, while he sipped instant noodle soup and penciled in questions to ask Sanders. When the biting winter cold came, he pushed two of the small couches next to the clanking radiator, pivoting their cushions to face each other, creating a tiny camp bed that he topped with his sleeping bag and a castoff horse blanket from the ranch.

Eventually, he learned enough to swap a filthy compressor with a spare he’d found over at Sander’s Auto yard. It was his greatest fix-it project to date, even though his enthusiasm had been dampened slightly by the knowledge that he couldn’t tell anyone about his success.

He threw his backpack onto the couch and moved to make himself a packet of instant ramen for dinner. He liked ramen; it was cheap and filling, supplemented with the steamed vegetables he hoarded in a small plastic cup from the cafeteria’s lunch menu. Mrs. Unger was one of only two lunch ladies left to serve the students after last year’s budget cuts. He’d helped her stack bags of frozen foods a few times during his free periods. Now, he timed his lunch periods three days a week to see her when she served. She always gave him an extra piece of fruit, or a larger lunch portion. He made do on the other days with small contributions from Roswell’s local dollar store, heating water in a cheap aluminum pot on a single burner hotplate he’d grabbed from the trash at the ranch and repaired over the winter.

He was more comfortable in the tiny lounge than he’d ever been anywhere else. He liked the small, close space, and was bitter about losing it to the reconstruction efforts next week. His makeshift bookshelf, tucked in the cabinets furthest away from the (formerly) leaking sink, held his tiny pile of castoff books, class notes, and a small shoebox.

The sturdy Adidas box had been with him for 2 years, picked up by chance, and reinforced carefully along its edges with strips of duct-tape. It held the few treasures of a life lived on the move, and two carefully hoarded artifacts.

Setting the small burner to boil a pot of water, he pulled the box from its shelf, letting his fingers touch each object:

-a small handwritten list of names, listing the 11 foster or group positions he’d been a part of since he’d been found with the twins;

-a set of matching blue ribbons, marking him for the “honor roll” at Roswell High;

-a folded blue packet of papers, clipped together with a cheap binder clip, containing his foster records and behavioral analysis reports;

-four birthday cards, two with glitter, from Max and Isabel, celebrating their “shared” birthday. Three had two marks on the inside, former holders for small gift cards - Isabel’s contribution since sophomore year;

-a silver belt buckle, tossed to him by a smiling cowboy after this summer’s employee rodeo at the ranch. He’d won the barrels, handily beating the time of the other junior employees by several seconds;

-a bandana covered object, opened to show a piece of fine iridescent glass, shimmering like lake water, despite its solid state. When he touched it, discrete lines of chatoyancy would burst from his fingertips. It was a relic of his past, and held the greatest answers to the existence of himself and his siblings.

-And finally, two envelopes, both from the same location: the University of New Mexico, (UNM to most.) His fingers opened the larger legal envelope, pulling out the pristine letter to read the words one more time (though certainly not for the last time.)

* * *

“Dear Michael,

Congratulations! On behalf of the faculty and staff at the University of New Mexico, it is with great pleasure that I wish to inform you of your acceptance to UNM as a member of the class of 2012. You were selected from a group of academically talented applicants who applied under the Early Decision Plan. You are truly outstanding in your achievements, the breadth of your talents, interests, and potential.

This is a particularly exciting time to be a student at UNM. The school’s Physics and Astrophysics program is unparalleled in this region. You will have amazing opportunities to work with a faculty who are renowned for their exceptional scholarship and research.

I hope that this early acceptance to UNM will enable you to pursue the rest of your secondary school experiences without the additional demands of the college admissions process.

As discussed in our conversation earlier this year, we recognize that some students have limited means to support their continued success in their studies, and are happy to award you with a full scholarship for the 2008-2009 academic year. This scholarship, as determined by the Admissions Review Board and the department for Student Academic Affairs, includes: tuition and fees, room and board, and a conditional work-study stipend for text-books, as well as additional living expenses and materials.

This scholarship is renewed each year at the discretion of the Dean of Student Academic Affairs, and requires an additional application and review for each academic year.

We have reviewed the terms of your application to commit your work-study hours as a research assistant to Dr. Fergus MacNeil, Chair of the Physics and Astrophysics program, Dean Emeritus of the Graduate School of Astrophysics. His response is enclosed with this package under separate cover.

We look forward to hearing from you, confirming your intent to enroll by updating your status with our admissions team. Please let me know if we can be of any help to you between now and September.

Sincerely,

Jason Lahks

Dean of Admissions and Financial Aid

* * *

Michael folded the letter carefully, sliding his thumb along the page crease to keep the fine edge, before sliding it back into the envelope. He pulled out a smaller envelope, less crisp, with a small coffee cup stain marring one edge.

* * *

Dear Mr. Guerin,

I’ll admit, I have no clue why you’d want to be my research assistant. I received your letter breaking down my Graduate seminar’s work with fluid mechanics. I see you’ve got a copy of Landau-Lifshitz. Interesting reading for a high school senior.

Landau-Lifshitz was able to make a concise book for classical mechanics, quantum, electromagnetics, etc., but their fluid mechanics book is thick and complicated. The real difficulty of fluids in my opinion is that a problem can go from well-posed to ill-posed with tiny changes, from nearly Newtonian to highly nonlinear with another tiny change. Logic and ration will work sometimes in fluids and sometimes not. Worse, some 99% of the observable universe is in a fluid state, which is how we describe plasmas.

Fluid mechanics is so danged difficult to work that a lot of physics programs simply declare the problems “solved” and leave the training to the engineering programs. And then there is so much less consistency within fluids from textbook to textbook. Potential flows are used one way in one textbook and another way in a different one. I am only an average thinker, and I found fluids to be like an entirely new language. With quantum, I could find some mathematical touchstones with classical or statistical dynamics. Solid state gave me the touchstone of geometries. But the math behind fluids was so violently new, it's sometimes like the Wild West of academic physics.

Finally, I think to even have a chance to do work in fluids, the researcher needs to know Jackson's E&M cold, and statistical dynamics cold, and a good background in nonlinear differentials.

I do incredibly basic work with fluids in my own research, and I usually have to simplify the systems to the bare minimum just to have a prayer to find a solution. Fluid mechanics will expose me as a dummy every time!

But, it's worth it. There is a stark beauty in fluids, that contains zeros and infinities in the same system, kind of like renormalization. And it helps to see the world differently … for instance in the Pacific Ocean, a single molecule of water off the coast of Japan is mathematically linked to another molecule of water in Antarctica. A potential flow on one side of the sun is similarly linked to the flow on the opposite side of the sun.

I haven’t been impressed in a long time, Mr. Guerin. Academia does that to you, I’m afraid.

Every student thinks they’re a genius, every teacher thinks they’re God. Let’s see if you’re a genius.

I expect you in my office on Sept 15th, 8:00am. Bring coffee and a dust cloth. My shelves need re-organizing.

Sincerely,

Dr. Fergus MacNeil, Chair of the Physics and Astrophysics program, Dean Emeritus of the Graduate School of Astrophysics.

* * *

Updated every Tuesday, (or earlier.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s notes:  
> 1\. All internal character thoughts are presented in for this chapter. 
> 
> 2\. ‘And then Satan said, “Let’s put the alphabet in math.”’ I’m not a math scholar. Math beyond basic arithmetic gives me hives. That being said, I brushed up on some lovely AP Physics notes from the internet. Thank you, Google. 
> 
> 3\. As mentioned in our earlier (one-sided) conversation in the Author’s Notes page, timelines in Roswell, NM are a bit…tricky. I’ve asked for some help here, and the absolutely lovely gra-sonas on Tumblr has provided a treasure trove of…delightful estimates.  
> Check out their post here: https://gra-sonas.tumblr.com/post/622474898701434880/random-ask-im-writing-a-fic-and-im-trying-to
> 
> 4\. In my mindset, because time…is wibbly wobbly stuff, I’m establishing first contact between Alex and Michael at about April, 2008. That would have been roughly 6 weeks before Rosa’s death, and a probable 8-10 weeks before graduation. 
> 
> 5\. This story is told in a non-linear fashion, across the perspectives of multiple characters, including new original characters who will be introduced in the next few chapters.


End file.
